


Domestic Bliss

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Boys Being Boys, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Jaskier is a little shit, Lads Lads Lads, Lads on Tour Across The Continent, M/M, and an enabler, lots of swearing, the bants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25887223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: ‘You limpdick fucking wanker!’ Jaskier shouts and throws a pillow at him. ‘What the hell did you want to marry me for?’‘Oh well, I’ve secretly always wanted to be a fucking Countess, and then you went and proposed to me so nicely!’Geralt and Jaskier bickering and bantering their way across the Continent
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Comments: 74
Kudos: 255





	Domestic Bliss

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [one foot in sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138630) by [theundiagnosable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable). 



> TW: lots of swearing, lots of derogatory but joking uses of the word 'fat'

Geralt is sitting at the bar about three bottles down when Jaskier walks in behind him, and as soon as he smells that familiar lemon-polish and honeysuckle scent, he looks about wildly and genuinely considers jumping the bar to escape. He really does just want to drink alone and be miserable for a bit, but Jaskier will insist on cheering him up, and what’s worse is that it will probably work too.

Jaskier spots him and makes his way over, but he doesn’t look his usual bouncy self. 

‘One more for me and my pal here,’ he says to the innkeeper, and pats his shoulder in greeting before sinking down onto the stool next to him. 

‘Fuck off Jaskier.’ Geralt says, and Jaskier just stares him down.

The innkeeper returns with a fresh bottle, and Jaskier says waspishly ‘Actually, just my drink, if you don’t mind, see, I thought this was my good friend Geralt, but I’ve mistaken him for whoever the fuck this miserable twat is. I’d cut him off if I were you, those Witchers get a bit bitey when they’ve had a few.’

The innkeeper looks between them, nervously.

Geralt sighs. ‘Fuck off, please?’

‘What crawled up your arse and died? I only left last week.’

Geralt looks into the bottom of his empty glass and contemplates his place in the universe solemnly. Jaskier relents eventually and beckons the innkeeper back for a refill. When the innkeeper fucks off again, Geralt downs his glass, and Jaskier leans closer.

‘Come on Geralt, talk to me.’

‘I went to see Yen for a few days, but she kicked me out this morning. Said she was done with me.’

‘Oh, fuck buddy, that’s rough.’ He snags the bottle and refills their glasses. They look at the drinks. They drink the drinks.

After a suspiciously long silence Geralt looks at Jaskier, who is slumped on his stool, not even attempting to catch the gaze of any of the pretty girls eyeing him.

‘What about you?’ He tries.

‘The Countess said about the same thing to me, what, about half an hour ago?’

‘Fuck.’ Says Geralt, as sympathetically as he can manage.

They look at the drinks. They drink the drinks.

Geralt is sunk deep into appreciating the little corner of sullen silence they are radiating when Jaskier slams his palms on the bar and hisses ‘Fuck this.’

‘Jaskier-‘ Geralt tries, valiantly, to cut him off before he reaches full steam.

‘No seriously, fuck this! We are two of the most attractive men on this thrice-accursed Continent, those fucking bitches…we didn’t need them anyway! I mean look at you, you’re decent enough when you’ve had a bath, you’re great in the sack, you’ve got all your own teeth, what’s not to like?’

‘Thanks.’ Says Geralt, drily.

‘Throw Roach in to sweeten the deal and I’d marry you in a heartbeat, I don’t know what’s wrong with that witch.’

‘We always end up fighting.’ Geralt says, glumly.

‘Yes, and we always end up fighting as well, but I wouldn’t be stupid enough to kick you out of bed.’

Horrifyingly, his eyes feel a little damp at the reassurance.

‘Thanks Jaskier, you’re a good friend.’ He manages. ‘You’re pretty great too, as well.’

‘I’m the best fucking bard Oxenfurt has ever seen!’

‘Too right.’ Says Geralt, warming to the subject. ‘And you have your teeth as well.’

‘Don’t have a horse though.’ Jaskier looks rather dejected at the thought, and Geralt slaps his own palms on the bar.

‘Hey, you’ve got your lute, haven’t you?’

‘Marissa said she’d rather listen to a badger being waxed than any more of my songs.’

Geralt is struck with a deep and intense surge of fellow-feeling for the Countess but hides his laughter in his glass before Jaskier catches it. The bard swings his leg morosely, kicking at Geralt’s already scuffed boots under the bar.

He offers up his own lover’s parting words. ‘Yen said she’d portal me straight into the sea if I showed up again.’

‘Gods, what a world.’ Jaskier looks even more upset at this, and horrifyingly, tears start brimming in his eyes. ‘It’s just not fair Geralt, you poor sod, I really thought you and Yen would work out.’

‘Hey, Jaskier…er…don’t cry.’ He pats his shoulder but that only makes things worse.

‘You both liked black so much!’ Jaskier wails, downright weeping now.

He’s seen Jaskier on the outs with his Countess before, and it usually manifests in the poet vacillating wildly between outright misery and righteous fury. Come to think of it, Jaskier’s seen him through a few of him and Yen’s more turbulent patches as well, but they’ve never managed to sync up before.

‘Hang on a minute. They don’t know each other, do they?’

‘What, Yennefer and Marissa? I dread to think. They both like to stick their noses everywhere they can, that’s for sure.’

Geralt lets that rather terrifying thought slide, and flags down the innkeeper again, rummaging for Jaskier’s coin purse at his hip. Jaskier lets him, well used to sharing everything they own save their shoes, if only because Jaskier has remarkably dainty feet.

Jaskier perks up when the drinks arrive, and Geralt lets him, reasoning that if at least one of them is miserable at a time then the evening won’t be too bad. He sighs, but Jaskier is relentless.

‘You know what we should do?’

‘What?’

‘We should go dancing.’

‘What.’ He says flatly.

‘Dancing! You and me, painting the town red. C’mon, like the good old days.’

‘When have we ever danced?’

‘Exactly. You never take me dancing. I love dancing. I used…I used to dance with Marissa.’

Tears threaten to spill again, and Geralt hastily agrees before Jaskier starts bawling properly.

He downs his drink, and completely fails to notice Jaskier’s grin as they leave.

Three taverns, four inns, and what appears to be a secret speak-easy later, Geralt is treading beyond pissed and tipping straight into the drunkest he’s ever been. Jaskier dangles off his arm, very thoroughly danced with, covered in remnants of makeup and looking flushed and debauched. Jaskier passes the pipe back to the kind prostitute he found, and they are commiserating about lost love and smoking their way through what looks like an entire bag of pipeweed while Geralt watches the room spin and hiccups into his enormous cocktail of spirits. 

‘And then, I said, of course I’d marry him, the daft sod.’ He tunes back in to hear Jaskier yelling in his new friend’s ear while she nods fervently, although how an ordinary human can hear anything over the thumping music and shouting going on, he has no idea. 

‘Why don’t you?’ She screams back, and Jaskier grins wickedly and kisses her hands fervently.

‘Good idea!’ He bellows back, and turns back to Geralt.

‘Geralt!’

‘I can hear you, you don’t need to shout!’

‘Gerallllllt.’ Jaskier sways towards him. ‘Listen, listen, listen, yeah? Fuck. Those. Bitches. We don’t need them, not even…not even a little tiny bit. Me and you, the lads, yeah? Fuck them, right? We should get married!’

Enough alcohol has reached his brain that the idea sounds absolutely hilarious.

They stagger back through the cobbled streets to the inn, hours later, arms round each other’s shoulders and making very little progress. 

‘I’ve still got a pair of her knickers.’ 

‘You sad cunt.’ Says Geralt.

‘All I’ve got left in the world. Pair of her knickers. Not even good ones.’

‘Stop fucking whining. D-don’t need her anyway, you’ve got me. And Roach.’

‘Because we’re married!’ Jaskier shouts, and then turns on him. That familiar gleam lights up in Jaskier’s eyes. 

‘Geralt, I’ll give you ten crowns. Right here. Right now.’

‘Go on.’

‘If you put them up there.’ And he points to the flagpole next to them, proudly displaying the flag of the Free City of Novigrad.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Nah go on. Ten crowns. Get yourself a new pair of...fucking...massive shoes. Or can the big old Witcher not make it to the top?’

‘Go on then.’

Jaskier presents the Countess’s stolen knickers ceremonially, and Geralt bats his hands away when he tries stuffing them in his mouth.

‘Well you’ll need your hands won’t you, you daft cunt?’

‘They’d better be fucking clean.’

‘Not at liberty to say, mate.’ 

Geralt lists to the side and stares up at the flagpole blearily. Jaskier takes advantage of his silence and sticks them on his head.

‘Go on then!’

Geralt hiccups, and then makes his way up the pole, creaking under his weight. Jaskier is doubled over with laughter on the ground, tears in his eyes and trying to keep quiet so the patrolling guards don’t hear.

He pulls the knickers off his head and waves them triumphantly in the air before hanging them off the top of the pole and letting himself slide back down to the ground jerkily.

Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt has to bend over and put his hands on his knees to muffle his own laughter. He goes for Jaskier’s coin purse, and Jaskier jabs him in the gut and cackles.

‘Alright, go on then,’ Jaskier says, ‘double or nothing.’

‘There is no way your fat arse is getting up and down that pole.’ Geralt says, judging the height again.

‘Your dad said that last night.’ Jaskier elbows him again in exactly the same spot.

‘Fuck off,’ he says, and slaps his hands away. ‘Go on then. Bet you can’t.’

Jaskier grins wickedly, and proceeds to shimmy up the pole, heaving for breath but making it to the top. ‘I’m King of Novigrad!’ He crows, voice echoing through the empty square.

The flagpole creaks ominously, and snaps.

Jaskier squeals as he drops, and Geralt has a moment to panic before he lifts his arms and catches him. Jaskier shakes with glee and kicks his feet happily, wrapping his arms round Geralt’s neck and pressing a sloppy wet kiss to his cheek.

‘My hero!’

‘Oi!’ Four guards enter the square from the other side, drawn by all the noise. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Geralt bolts, Jaskier still in his arms, creasing with laughter and making rude gestures at the guards over his shoulder as they make their escape.

They reach the inn, and Jaskier demands to be carried over the threshold, properly. Geralt smiles and kicks the door open with his foot. He wobbles as he walks, and Jaskier howls vengeance when he bangs his head on the wall. 

‘Oh fuck off you fat cunt. Next time you can be the one carrying me.’

He tosses Jaskier on the bed, and then passes out next to him, still in all his armour.

Jaskier wakes up the next day too hungover to breathe. He whines, and keeps his eyes as tightly closed as possible while he reaches for a pillow to smother himself with. Geralt kicks him, and he decides to smother Geralt instead. Ten seconds of feeble flopping later, Jaskier gives in and just swears at him vehemently.

‘What?’

‘Wake up you idiot.’

‘What?’ Jaskier says, louder.

‘We got fucking married.’

‘Fuck off did we.’

‘Well it wasn’t my idea!’

Jaskier opens his eyes at that and tries to work out which Geralt he should be shouting at.

‘You’re chatting shite again.’

‘We got married.’ Says Geralt, and this time he sounds like he can’t believe it himself.

Faint bells ring in the back of his head, and he sits up, horrified.

‘We got fucking married?’

Geralt just nods, and stares back at him, eyes wide and panicked.

‘You limpdick fucking wanker!’ Jaskier shouts and throws a pillow at him. ‘What the hell did you want to marry me for?’

‘Oh well, I’ve secretly always wanted to be a fucking Countess, and then you went and proposed to me so nicely!’ He says, getting wound up.

Jaskier laughs despite himself, and then raises an accusing finger.

‘I knew it! I knew you were after my money.’

‘You gigantic fucking tosspot! You were the one who was all,’ Geralt raises his voice several octaves, ‘ooh Geralt let’s be together forever, we don’t need women, we have each other.’

‘In all fairness, these are still valid points and I stand by them. However,’ and Jaskier raises his eyebrows, ‘why the fuck did you say yes?’

‘No idea. Thought it’d be a laugh, probably.’

‘Geralt!’ Jaskier honestly has the nerve to sound outraged. ‘ _I’m_ the one with the mad ideas, and _you’re_ supposed to be the voice of reason! How the hell are we going to get anything done if we’re both going round having mad ideas? We’ll be dead by dusk if you carry on like that, honestly.’

‘You want a divorce then?’

‘No way in hell, this is the funniest thing that’s happened to me in _years_. You?’

‘I hear it’s pretty expensive to get all the paperwork done.’

‘You soppy cunt.’ Jaskier flops back down on the bed and giggles. ‘We’re not having our fucking honeymoon in Novigrad though, I’ll tell you that now.’

‘What am I going to tell Yen?’ Geralt says mournfully.

‘Well, _if_ you see her again, and that’s a big fucking if, I’d go with something along the lines of ‘Yennefer, the ardent passion I’ve hidden for my beloved Jaskier could be denied no longer, and now we are bound forever in holy matrimony.’ You can do it, I believe in you.’

Geralt sits on him.

‘Off off off, gods, not a good start to domestic bliss!’ He wheezes, and Geralt relents.

‘I’ll fucking burst you, you jumped up little bastard.’

‘Do it tomorrow. I feel like shit.’

‘Yeah and you look like it too.’

‘Fuck off,’ Jaskier says affably and rolls over to look at him, ‘and fetch me a bath would you, husband dearest?’

Geralt actually turns pink, and Jaskier has never been one not to pounce on any weakness he finds.

‘Won’t you make me the happiest man on the Continent and fetch your poor aching husband a bath?’ He pouts as prettily as he can, and Geralt blinks at him, and _actually does it._

This is going to be brilliant, Jaskier can tell.

‘Cheer up, you miserable fucking scrote.’ 

Geralt is walking sullenly next to Roach, and for once Jaskier is riding, pointedly displaying his correct posture after years of horsemanship drilled into him as a child, and hoping husband privileges mean he gets to ride more often. 

‘Shut up.’

‘C’mon, it’s not so bad as all that. You’re married to your pal, your buddy, your main boy Jaskier! We already fuck like rabbits, we already travel together, it’s not actually all that different from what we already do.’

Surprisingly this seems to work, and Geralt seems to relax a little.

Jaskier waits a minute, for Geralt's mood to lift properly, and then adds, ‘When you die, does that mean I get Roach?’

He slumps again.

Jaskier stops Roach dead in the middle of the road and groans in realisation.

‘Fuck.’

Geralt halts as well and looks at him, worried.

‘What?’

‘You know that night we don’t ever, ever, ever talk about? On pain of instant death? Where you said something really stupid because you thought it would be funny? And gosh, speaking of, thought you’d have learned _that_ lesson by now.’

Geralt grunts at him disapprovingly.

‘Don’t get me wrong, it was fucking hilarious, but I just realised my parents are going to absolutely shit themselves with glee. For fuck’s sake.’

‘What.’ Says Geralt, caught out.

Jaskier looks up at the sky, praying for aid, and then decides restraint has never really been his thing anyway.

‘I’m going to be a shit step-mother, I hope you know that.’

Geralt whistles once, and Roach careens instantly into a gallop beneath him. Jaskier slides straight back out of the saddle and lands flat on his arse in the dirt.

Geralt finally laughs, and Jaskier grins up at him, too relieved to be pissed off.

They make camp that night next to a little stream, and Geralt hunts them a brace of pheasant. Jaskier smiles up at him coyly, and Geralt just stands there awkwardly and clears his throat, flapping his hands as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Jaskier gives in and throws a pheasant at his face, and they settle down to plucking peacefully.

‘So this whole marriage thing,’ he begins, and Geralt groans, ‘I think we need some rules.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, obviously we’re still fucking other people as well.’ Geralt nods, looking vaguely relieved. 

‘But I thought, now that I’m your husband and all, is there anyone off-limits?’

Geralt stares at him baffled. 

He tries again. ‘Now that you’ve the sole claim to my heart, as it were, is there anyone you definitely do not want me to fuck? And the same goes for you.’

‘Yen.’ Geralt says instantly.

‘Deal, I don’t want frostbite on my dick. Although technically, she did touch my cock before yours, if we’re being pedantic.’

Geralt huffs and tries his best glower, but that has never worked on Jaskier.

‘Let’s make it fair, we each get five people, that the other absolutely cannot fuck, on pain of death.’

‘Why do I only get five? You fuck so many people I can’t possibly pick just five out of the entire goddamn Continent!’

‘Fair’s fair. Five, or else we’d be here all day.’ Jaskier thinks for a moment, eyes darting about sneakily. ‘So mine would be, you cannot fuck the Countess de Stael, or Valdo Marx, or either of my parents, or Queen Calanthe.’

‘Calanthe?’ says Geralt, voice cracking in surprise. 

‘Yeah I’m doing you a favour here mate, if that whole suspiciously prickly incident hadn’t happened she would have had you right there on that table.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Just saving you from vaguely incestuous hate-sex at this point, buddy. And I want the chance, should the opportunity ever come my way. You know I like it when they walk in covered in blood.’

Geralt winks at him, and now it’s Jaskier’s turn to go pink.

‘So mine would be Yennefer, obviously.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Er…Triss Merrigold?’

‘Isn’t she the Temerian mage? Why?’

‘She’s nice and I don’t want her pissed off at me.’

Jaskier laughs and nods in agreement.

Geralt sits bolt upright and says ‘Jaskier, you cannot fuck my brothers.’

‘That’s a shame, Eskel’s quite fit. And I always thought Lambert was sweet on me.’

‘No.’ Geralt says, carefully and explicitly stern.

‘Fine,’ Jaskier huffs, ‘You’ve got one left, choose wisely...’

‘Coen, then.’ Jaskier eyes him carefully. ‘He’s a Griffin, winters with us sometimes.’

‘Okay. Final answer?’

Geralt nods, looking pleased with himself, and they shake on it.

‘The pact is sealed. No take-backs. I will not fuck Yennefer, Triss Merrigold, Eskel, Lambert or Coen.’

And Geralt huffs and says ‘And I will not fuck your Countess, Valdo Marx, your parents or Queen Calanthe.’ 

They settle down to eat their dinner and then enjoy a lazy shag by the firelight.

Jaskier waits until Geralt is closing his eyes to sleep and leans up on his elbow to watch his face.

‘Just out of interest, how old _is_ Vesemir?’

Geralt’s eyes slam back open and he grabs for Jaskier, who just cackles helplessly, even as Geralt picks him up and dunks him in the river. 

He snorts and splutters, and then sings ‘I’m going to fuck your dad,’ and Geralt holds his head under, ‘and then I’m going to divorce you,’ another dunking, ‘and marry him,’ another much longer dunk, ‘and I’m going to send you to bed without any dinner!’

Geralt gets him in a headlock and he splashes in retaliation, and they end up wrestling in the stream until Jaskier is crying with laughter and they are both thoroughly soaked.

They reach the next big town by the end of the week, and Jaskier is pleasantly surprised by how well married life is turning out. Geralt hasn’t gotten used to being called husband yet, and Jaskier has been milking it for all he’s worth, fluttering his eyelashes mercilessly and getting extra breaks and more rides on Roach whenever he asks for them.

As soon as word of their arrival in town spreads, Jaskier is requested to perform at the Mayor’s house for his daughter’s nameday. He drags Geralt along to the tailors, and delights in dressing them up in as much finery as Geralt will allow.

He swaggers, triumphant, from the dressing room in his beautiful new ruffled doublet, and preens for Geralt to admire.

‘You look like someone vomited on a pastry and then gave it legs.’ 

He snaps his head round to where Geralt stands, looking very uncomfortable in a tight brown tunic.

‘You look like somebody shaved a bear and then told it a shit joke.’

‘That actually sounds about right.’ They grin at each other as the seamstress stands between them looking shocked.

Jaskier performs as fantastically as he always does, maidens swooning and thrilling with the cheers and applause he receives after his encore. He makes his way back through the crowd to Geralt, who is standing awkwardly and gripping his ale for dear life as the Mayor’s daughter backs him into the corner. 

‘Darling, are you alright?’ He says, and Geralt smirks at him.

The Mayor’s daughter turns on him, and squawks ‘Darling?’

‘Yes, my lady, this fine gentleman is my husband.’

Geralt tugs him closer, and kisses him, very showily. Jaskier sighs into the kiss and loses himself in it a little, restless energy from his performance sliding easily into languid heat.

They resurface, and the simpering bitch has fled for safer ground.

Jaskier drapes himself across his Witcher, and pointedly asks ‘What did you think of my performance?’

‘You sound like a weasel trying to have an orgy by itself.’

He stamps on Geralt’s boot, feigning outrage.

‘Oh, and you’re familiar with weasel orgies are you?’

Eyes all over the room are drawn to them then, as Geralt hoots with laughter and utterly fails to conceal his snorts. 

Jaskier grins up at him. Really, the first time he introduced Geralt as his husband couldn’t have gone better if he’d tried. 

Geralt fires a bomb at the nest of Nekkers, and Jaskier whoops from the safety of his tree. ‘Fucking shit shot you are! My fucking granny could hit better than that and she’s fucking dead!’

Geralt glances back at him, holding off three at once at the end of his sword, and shouts ‘Yeah and you can tell her I said ‘fuck off’ in a minute when you fucking see her again!’

Roach just snorts at them, and Jaskier belts out his latest composition at the top of his lungs while Geralt finishes them off.

Geralt squelches back to Jaskier’s tree and huffs up at him as he climbs down, grumbling impatiently. 

‘Can’t believe that took so long, some fucking shite wolf you are.’

‘That last song sounded like someone playing catch with a hedgehog.’

Jaskier wheels round indignantly and goes for the low blow.

‘And you are getting too fat for those trousers.’

Geralt gives chase, sword raised, and he flees into the woods, screaming over his shoulder, ‘Be careful running, don’t want to rip them!’

The Witcher catches him and smacks his arse with the flat of his blade, which quickly turns into an impromptu spanking and some light roleplay. Jaskier’s third outfit in a week ends up covered in viscera.

When they finish and catch their breaths, Jaskier looks down at the mess they’ve made of his clothes and says, ‘Hang on, are you doing this on purpose?'

Geralt just grins at him.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/vvitchering/status/1292171971556519937?s=20) and [the amazing one foot in sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138630), seriously i will be hyping this fic on my deathbed, it is _fantastic_
> 
> i just wanted Jaskier and Geralt roasting the absolute piss out of each other tbh
> 
> EDIT: marking as complete for now but if I think of more I will add it...


End file.
